Reason Number 81 Why I Am Going to Hell

This actually happened a few months back yet I think it is still worth telling. As you all know by now, I don't really have a social life. Thus I usually don't have much to tell. If it weren't for my co-workers, I probably wouldn't have much to share at all. Luckily, I am surrounded by quirky co-workers that keep me entertained and put up with all my idiosyncrasies.  My friend Heidi, who was featured in two of my earlier reasons I am going to hell, is one of such co-workers. Heidi is, of course, not her real name. I shall never reveal her real name or where we work in order to protect her privacy (along with the Co-Worker's [who has unfortunately recently informed that she will not be reading this blog anymore due to the inconsistency of my posting]and He Who Reads From the Shadows'). I am adding a new co-worker as I am sure that she will give me more than just this one story I am about to tell. She shall be henceforth known by the moniker of Dottie. (On a personal note, I chose that nickname because I know she will hate it.)

When I first started my current job, I was excited because I thought I was going to have plenty of time to read. I did not however know that, although I would have time, I would not have the willpower to read as often as I could because I would waste too much time playing around with co-workers and watching videos on the minuscule screen on my iPod.

On random days, though, I can be seen reading a book here and there. A few months back, I was reading Letters From the Earth by Mark Twain. It had come greatly recommended by a very valued friend and I was not disappointed. I was sitting at my desk reading when Dottie came up to it and asked me what I was doing. Always eager to engage someone in conversation and maybe even lure them into an argument, I quickly told her about the book. I know that the anti-religious sentiment in it would not bode well with her as we had argued about religion in the past. This time however I was surprised by the fact that she was not as judgmental as I expected and just went on a tangent about how she wanted to get an e-reader. She said she had recently been called to jury duty and that she saw a young girl, Dottie is "middle-aged" (I refuse to give her real age on account that she has already threatened to shoot me in the past), with one and she had become interested. I, having a Lit degree, quickly argued that you lose a lot from the reading experience by not having a physical book when you are reading. She said she could see my point but was quick to add that you could have up to a thousand books and could carry them more conveniently. I quickly countered by saying, "That doesn't matter. You don't even have enough time left to read a thousand books." Which might have been a bad thing to say. Especially if you remember that she I said she was "middle-aged", which is me being generous about her age. Still, I probably should not tell someone that they won't be alive long enough to read as many books as they want. Fortunately, once it dawned on her what I had said and after the quick shock of the comment, she laughed it off. I felt kind of bad and tried to fix it by saying that I probably did not have enough time to read a thousand books either. It did not seem too consoling that we were both too old to read one thousand books. Anyway, she did say that I was going to go to hell for saying something like that after which I had no choice but to write about it here.

Well, there it is. Reason number eighty-one why I am going to hell is that I reminded someone that death is nigh, and nigher every minute. I rather like this story but it probably is one of those stories which were better if you were there. Anyway, at least I had something to write. To be honest, I started writing this pretty late on Sunday night and after a whole day of cleaning and laundry. The only reason I did is because I promised Preggo, for whom I need to find a new nickname since she already had her baby, that I would write something on the blog this weekend. I do have one more reason why I am going to hell coming and a lot of stuff has happened so I do want to write a new post soon. Until then, thanks for still reading.

Public Service Announcement

I am debating on whether to make this a very long post or to break it up in small segments. Considering how inconsistent I am with my posting I am leaning towards the former although the latter would probably be best. Once again, thanks to the few of you who still follow this blog. You might say that I am not a demanding blogger and that I don't expect you to spend many hours reading my many entries. Closer to the truth is that I am a neglectful blogger and thus have to keep thanking you for your continued interest in reading my misadventures.

One more thing, I am excited that, sometime back, we went through the 1000 page views milestone. I should have prepared some sort of concert with some sort of price but I just now noticed it. I shall have to start planning something for when we get to 5000 page views. As to what to do, I have no idea. I may bring it up later  when we are closer and see if you guys have any ideas. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me this long.

Also, I have to get through all this so bear with me, I am sorry for the last post. I needed to get that off my chest and you guys were my only outlet. This actually segues really well into my actual post, which begins now.

Today's PSA is, as most everything in this blog, all about me. I am ISO (in search of, for those of you not in the know) a best friend. I had one but apparently I have misplaced her. I am not too demanding. So far my best friends have been women, but that is not a requirement. I think I could just as well have a best friend that is a guy but guys tend to have weird interests like sports and cars which I have no interest in. Moving on, my best friend has to be fun and willing to listen to inane ramblings that may go on for hours sometimes, especially during road trips. I am known for once spending the whole drive to Waco, about a three hour drive, speaking non-stop about Edgar Allan Poe. That was, of course, two best friends ago. I often wonder if that long diatribe had anything to do with why she is no longer my best friend. Actually, I am fairly certain that her getting married and becoming religious might have had something to do with our growing apart. I have not seen her since she helped me get home after the Odessa incident. We had already been growing apart then and since we have not spoken or seen each other. You could say I am ungrateful but we really did grow too far apart and had to claim irreconcilable differences.

After her, I transitioned smoothly to my next best friend. She was the one that made me realize that I had to add an amendment to my "helping people move" rule. Right now, I would say my status as a best friend has been removed and whether I am still even a friend remains to be seen. Let me update you on this relationship. After I helped her move, she started dating again. She dated several people and then she started fixating on one. They started dating exclusively and, after a few months, signed a domestic partnership. Now, she has moved in with her girlfriend. This would be a wonderful love story, if a short one, if it weren't for the fact that the new girlfriend hates me. We had an argument once, after having a few drinks while we were both stubborn, and she has held that against me ever since. Plus, she was jealous of my friendship with my best friend and how close we were. Unfortunately, that was enough to drive a wedge in our friendship and thus I find myself best-friend-less.

That's life though. I am sad, but I know it is for the best. Now, on to the fun part, finding a new best friend. I am currently accepting applications and resumes. Anyone interested in applying for the position will have to fulfill certain requirements. They can be of either gender as I am an equal opportunity befriender (I know that is not a word but go with me on this one. Also, if you are questioning my writing skills, you need not apply.) Also, I have no preference on sexual orientation when it comes to friends, as evidenced by the fact that my last best friend was a lesbian. You will however have to be at least a little bit smart and think that I am at least kind of funny. You will need to have previous experience. I do not have the patience or time to teach you the ropes of best-friend-ship. If you are interested in the position but have no previous experience, you can always apply for the lower position of just friend or maybe acquaintance depending on how interesting you are. Those positions come with fewer benefits, like me not helping you move, but you will still get my loyalty and an ear and a shoulder when needed. As a best friend you would receive the same benefits as a friend plus I will help you move and you would take precedence over other friends and, at times, family. Anyone interested can contact me in any which way you can. This will help me determine how ingenious and imaginative you are, both of which are important qualities you should have.

To quote the great Tobias, "Let the great experiment begin!!!" I look forward to receiving your applications and resumes. All serious inquiries will be considered fairly and a decision shall be made hopefully within a week. I am expecting some really great and amazing people to apply so if you are not selected for the position don't take it personally, there was just someone better. It is not that I don't care about you but that something better came along so don't be mad or upset at me. It's your own fault for not being all you can be. If you are not selected this time around, you can always try and hone your skills for next time I need a best friend. Maybe then you will be worth my time. It's not everyday you can become best friends with someone as awesome, smart, funny, and humble as me so take a chance. It might be your lucky day.

A Purple Post

Dear everyone,


Let me start by apologizing for not having posted anything in so long and because this new post will not be a fun one. Allow me to indulge this one time and stand in my soapbox for this one time. I will resume my regular posting soon, I promise.


Today, I wore a purple shirt to work. Sadly, I thought I was making a difference. Don't get me wrong. I am glad I did it. A few days back I received a facebook invite to wear purple today in memory of the gay teenagers that had committed suicide due to bullying. I thought it was a worthy cause so I accepted it and even forwarded the invite to a few friends. Today at work, me and two other co-workers wore purple, but our lives were hardly affected by it.


I came home today and happened to find out more about what has been going on and it breaks my heart. Thankfully I was never bullied but coming to terms with my sexual orientation was hard enough as it was. I cannot imagine what these kids had to go through to push them so far. I remember that at the age of 16 I was as close as I ever came to committing suicide. I remember the loneliness and the pain. I read my writings from back in the day and they scare me. I remember looking for help and calling helplines that only felt as superficial as any friends that I had at the moment. I remember the despair and the sinking feeling in my stomach and speeding to meet with church friends just because I was afraid to be alone. Now, I can't even fathom going through all that and still having to deal with being bullied.


I have never told anyone about those dark days in my life but listening to the stories of these kids brought all this up. Listening to some of the stories from some of the mothers who did not suspect that their kids were going through tough times reminds me of Stevie Smith's poem "Not Waving but Drowning". Allow me to share it with you.


Not Waving but Drowning


Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning. 


As this poem illustrates, people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves. It is too late to help the teenagers that have committed suicide but it is not too late to make a difference on other kids' lives. It is easy to wear a purple shirt, but it is another matter to care and do something. There is no one thing that can be done but don't stand idly by if you see someone being bullied. Remember that we are all people and that every life has value. Being gay is not a choice. If I had been given a choice, I might have chosen differently. I have gay friends with kids that do not want their kids to be gay and not because they are homophobic but because they know the hardships that come with being gay. To be honest, although I have no kids myself and I hope never to have any, I do not want my nephews to be gay. If they are, I will be there for them to help them become who they are, but I do not wish upon them what I've had to go through to get to where I am now. Don't get me wrong, I love who I am now. If you know me you have heard me say a million times how I think I am awesome. Unfortunately, that wasn't always the case. At one point I too was not waving but drowning.


Thank you for putting up with my over-indulgence. I promise to go back to my semi-entertaining posts soon I just had to get this off my chest. Now that I have said my share, I shall leave the soapbox for someone better suited to use it. If you hated this post, as you have the right to do, I hope you at least liked the poem. It is one of my favorites due to its simple and direct nature. That is it for now. Hope to write to y'all again soon.

Reason Number 80 Why I Am Going to Hell

While writing reason number 79, I remembered another reason why I am going to hell and thus decided to write it. Why was I reminded of this other occasion? Simple, I was reminded of it because it involves Heidi, my co-worker, and a friend of hers dying. Yes, I know it is not right to make fun of people when they die, but it is so much fun. So, this is the story behind reason number eighty:

A few weeks back, I was at work bored so I decided to go talk to some of the people in the offices in the back.  I stopped by Heidi's office to ask how she was doing and she told me that she was just informed that one of her old friends in Oklahoma had died that weekend. My first instinct, due to the fact that she did not know me that well back then, was to be sympathetic. I asked how long had she known him and she informed me that he had been a friend from high school and from her teenage years. I asked her what had happened. Apparently, he worked night shifts in a different town in OK and had a thirty minute commute every morning. Well, on Monday morning, as he was driving back home, he was hit by an eighteen-wheeler and had died due to the injuries maintained in the accident. She said that they were going to have his funeral that Friday and that she would be driving to OK Friday morning. I once again said I was sorry that her friend had died and left her office.

Friday morning came around and I noticed her car wasn't there that morning and I remembered she was gone in order to attend the funeral. I thought about something nice to send her in a text message in order to offer my support and the best I could come up with was "Have a safe drive. Hope you make it to Oklahoma safe... unlike your friend." I thought that was hilarious and thus became the 80th reason why I am going to hell. I felt it wished her a safe trip, let her know I was thinking of her, and used humor to lighten an otherwise emotionally tough situation. Apparently, no one else saw the positive in all of this. I thought I had a really funny and great way to comfort my friend, but apparently I was just being disrespectful to the dead.

I did not hear back from Heidi that day, and for a moment I thought she was mad at me. I sent her a text apologizing for my most awesome text. She did respond to that one and said that I did not need to apologize. That she had not responded because she had been busy the day before but that she was not mad or upset.  She went on to mention that she had received the text during the service at the church and the it was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. Apparently, I am not the only person in the world with an inappropriate sense of humor. It is always good to know that although I may end up in hell, at least I will be accompanied by people with a good sense of humor.

Yet Another Try at Randomness...

I know it has been too long since I posted something that was not pre-written. It's not your, the reader's, fault. It's the writer's fault. This blogger has been having a hard time being motivated to do anything and writing and updating the blog is included. Not that I don't appreciate that you read whatever inane ramblings I happen to come up with, for I am really thankful that I have any readers at all, but my lack of motivation has nothing to do with you. What I am trying to say is that it is not you, it's me. I mean, you guys are great. I am obviously the one that needs to work on some issues so that our relationship can work. I know that you can find some other better blog that will know how to entertain you and give you all you need. That being said, and after assuming all fault for our failing relationship, I would like to state that I would love the opportunity to make things up. I can change.   I promise to be more attentive and more demonstrative of how much you mean to me. I shall try to write at least once a week and to make the entries interesting. In other words, and to quote P!nk, "Please don't leave me. I forgot to say aloud how beautiful you really are to me. I can't live without you." The cards are on the table and the decision is yours. Find a better blog that entertains you in ways that I can't ever live up to or bear with me and see where this crazy road will lead us.

If the opening paragraph to today's post was not creepy enough, bear with me, I can be creepier. Way creepier. Now, onto the randomness:

• As many of you may, or may not, know, I used to work at Mardel, a christian bookstore. This was back near the end of my religious days and I loved working there because we were closed on Sundays and closed early on Wednesdays so that people could attend church. A few Wednesdays back, I was in that shopping center and saw a lady walking towards the doors at Mardel. The store was obviously closed. There were no lights on and no cars in the parking lot. Yet, the lady proceeded to walk to the doors and tried to open them. When they did not open, she walked over to the other set of doors and tried to open those. It made me glad I don't work there anymore as working with people that are that dumb is never fun.
• A few weeks back, I was house sitting for a friend of mine and I loved the idea of being away from home for a week. I was happy not to have to deal with my family for a week. Ironically, every day after work, I would come home and take a nap before going over to the house I was sitting because I slept better at my own bed.
• Along with house sitting, I also had to take care of her dogs. One of the dogs is a giant poodle. He's big, he's black and he's named Shakyll. He is the gentlest dog.
• Although he is gentle, my animal paranoia extends to the point that when the dog would sit next to me I would have to pet him just because he was sitting at eye level and, in my mind, if I didn't pet him, he would rip my throat out.
• That might have been why I never slept well while house sitting as apparently I was in constant fear for my life.
• At my old job, I used to have one of those reduced-effort staplers. I have always regretted not stealing it from my other job, which apparently is not a thought that you should share with your current employer as they don't look at supply stealing kindly. I finally bought myself one and I was so proud. I told everyone at work and had them try it. It might be sad but it was the highlight of my week.
• Another one of the many things that make me weird is that I have an allergy which causes my eye to hurt when the temperature drops. That is why I usually carry some Claritin pills. The other day, my eye started to hurt so I took my Claritin. Unfortunately, that did not work so a co-worker offered me some Ibuprofen. I am just going to say that people that are against self-medicating have never had Claritin and Ibuprofen at the same time because I had a fairly good time for the rest of the work day. No, not a fairly good time, a really good time. Yes, a REALLY good time.
• I have been reading the book "Letters From the Earth" by Mark Twain and he made a really compelling point. He said that people always look at god sending his son to die for mankind as a great example of love, but isn't it just a bigger example of bad parenting? I mean what kind of parent would kill their son for a mistake someone else committed?
• Since my last random post sucked, I have a list on my phone of topics I have been compiling so that I can write a better random post. Unfortunately, most of the items on the list consist of just a few words and, since the list is kind of old, I just came across an item which I have no idea where it is from or why I wrote it down. It reads, "Dr. Hasachubby." That's it. It sounds like a porn name and I bet there is an interesting story behind it, but I cannot remember where I got it from even if my life depended on it. So, there you have it, do with it what you will.
• Also, if you can figure out where it's from and you can tell me, I will be eternally grateful.
• The softball season has ended. The Sons of Pitches ended the season with a perfect record or zero wins. I have never been more proud in my life. I do miss having something to do on Sundays and hanging out by the pool, literally as I don't swim, with the teammates afterwards.
• I was at the store the other day, Target to be more exact, and I realize that I hate that they don't have the self-checkout lines. If I want some human contact, I will go to a bar, otherwise a machine will do. The one thing I loved about my vegas trip was the fact that the hotel had the room checkout option where you could checkout from the TV in your room. I loved that. I am a true misanthrope, the less I have to deal with people the better.
• Yes, that attitude works for me even though I work at a front desk as a receptionist. All my growing up in church experience is coming in handy when I have to be a hypocrite to all the annoying clients that come in.
• I had some really good ideas for posts to write the other day. Unfortunately, I was half-asleep and I could not remember them the next morning. How come I always have the best ideas when I am half-asleep? I have solved all of the world's problems while in that state and I forgot them the next morning which always sucks.
• I ran out of coke, the drink, the other day. I went to the store to get some more as I can't live without it. I was looking at prices and then I realized that the 24 pack was a better deal than the 12 pack, which was supposed to be on sale. Then it dawned on me. They weren't 24 packs, but 20 packs. 20 packs!!! Who the heck decided that was acceptable? Why did they have to change from 24 to 20? Did it make it better? I was really upset so I left that store and went to another one to find that the travesty was widespread. Needless to say, that ruined my day. I mean, I still bought the coke, I needed it, but I wasn't happy about it.

So, this is the second attempt at a random post. Hope you enjoyed it and that it was worth the wait. Hopefully, you will be hearing from me within a week. 

Reason Number 79 Why I Am Going to Hell

A while back, I had planned to take some of my co-workers to the drag show in Dallas. I find the drag show to be really fun and I believe it is something most people should experience at least once in their lifetime.  Due to the fact that we all have very different schedules I had planned it with a month in advance.  I even made a facebook event and invited the 6 co-workers that were to come. The first hitch we had was that The Co-Worker was not going to be able to come, thus reducing our number to 5. Preggo was also invited but could not attend. Since she is not a co-worker, and does not have a facebook page, she was not counted in the official list anyway. Other than that, everything seemed to be going smoothly, that was until one day before the day we were supposed to go.  This is what leads to reason seventy-nine of why I am going to hell.

We were scheduled to go on a Saturday night. The morning of the Friday before, everyone that was going had confirmed and we had even discussed logistics. Two of the co-workers are really close and had said that if one of them could not go, the other would not go either. That fateful morning, Heidi received a call from her mother. One of her aunts in Houston was very ill and had been given two days to live. She was going to have to drive down to Houston that weekend and was thus going to miss the drag show. Unfortunately, because she was not attending, her friend was not going to go either. When they cancelled, another co-worker said she really did not want to attend and that left me with just one more person who agreed that it would just be better if we re-scheduled.

I was so disappointed. It's just my luck to have one of my friend's aunts die on the weekend when I am planning an outing. Bear with me, it gets worse. I walked over to my desk, picked up my phone and called The Co-Worker and said, "Imma beat me a dead woman." I apologize for the horrible grammar in that sentence but I am quoting verbatim for two reasons. First of all, I wanted the quote to be realistic, and second, because I love how that phrase sounds. There you have it, reason number 79 why I am going to hell. Not only was I unsympathetic towards Heidi's family loss, I was mad at her aunt for interfering with my plans by dying.

Yes, I do recognize how horrible this is. I am pretty sure that hell will have a circle completely dedicated to me and that drag queens will somehow be incorporated into the punishment. I just thought that such a punishment would have to be so creative that it is a shame one can't blog from hell or I could do a follow-up to each of the reasons why I am going to hell with what punishment I was attributed for it. Hmmm, something to think about, perhaps?

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last post...

I hadn't said anything sacrilegious in a while so I figured it was about time. It is not a great piece of blasphemy but bear with me as I am rusty and bound to get better.

Moving on to more important things, the Sons of Pitches have not had a game in several weeks. First, a holiday, July 4th, interfered with the game. The week after that, the weather had turned the terrain unplayable and the two games we had that day were cancelled. This leaves the SOPs with an 0-2 record. We have a game on Sunday so let's hope we do well.

For those of you that helped name Dirty Willie, I must say that I am satisfied with the name and the more I live with it, the more I like it. I think it suits her and that she appreciates it. It may not be indicative of a prim and proper lady, but those kind of ladies hardly ever have any fun and DW is all about fun. I have a feeling that if she could speak, her lexicon would be composed of curse and risque words which would reflect her libertine take on life. In short, I like her more with this persona than when she used to be a tabula rasa that even failed to properly portray her gender. I shall keep you posted on the many adventures that D-Dub will undoubtedly have.

About The Unwanted, they are gone! Last Saturday night, as I watched rent and enjoyed a few cherry vodka sours, my mom asked me to come help her find bus tickets for The Unwanted as they were wanting to leave the next morning. I happily obliged and, come Sunday morning, I even drove them to the bus station in Dallas myself. I believe that was actually the most time I spent with them at once, the forty-five minute drive to the Dallas station. It appears that not spending long, extended periods of time with them was a good idea for in that short span of time I was ready to pull over and leave those kids stranded in the middle of the road. Fortunately, I did not and thus The Unwanted are back at their own home, away from me.

I have been meaning to write for a couple of days but I was unable as I was house-sitting and dog-sitting for a friend of mine. Although I had internet access and my laptop with me, I never had any time to write as I was too busy watching movies in her awesome theater room. On top of that, she gave me some money for helping her. I wisely spent part of this money buying a digital camera and the picture you will see later in the post would not be there if it weren't for my friend's generosity. I am now going to review the rest of the post, as it had been pre-written a week before it was posted, and I am gonna try and fix any incongruities. I apologize for any mistakes that may slip through. Now, on to the post.

This actually happened a few months back. It might have actually happened before I started this blog. I know I sent a text message to a lot of my friends and even posted a comment on facebook about it when it first happened. I think it's now time to share it with the world.

I work at a front desk with a clear view of the outside through the clear glass doors.  In fact, thanks to my new camera, the image above is what I see out my front door. I get really bored and usually just sit there looking for things to amuse me. Unfortunately there is not much to see.  I have seen a cock or two lounging around our front lawn. (Of course, I mean roosters. I just thought the wordplay would be a nice touch.)  There has been a mangy, small, dirty dog, prancing around the flowerbeds and resting under the trees. I have seen spiders and other insects making a living out there as well. I have even seen a homeless man open the cigarette butt container and look around the discarded old cigarettes looking for, and sometimes finding, something to smoke. Which reminds me, I have to stop him from doing that next time as he usually throws the useless butts on the ground instead of leaving them in the receptacle where he found them. Again, nothing too unusual. Usually.

On this particular day, I looked up and saw two brothers playing around. Not unusual at all, or so I thought. I wasn't paying much attention until I looked up and saw that one of the kids was walking on our lawn. Well, maybe not the lawn, as it was not the grass part he was walking on, but this kind of really low shrubbery type of plant that is part of our landscaping. I guess I should have looked up the name of said type of plant but that's too much work and I am lazy.  Still, since it is not really grass, people don't usually walk on it. Yet, this boy was walking through it in pursuit of his brother. Not a fast pursuit mind you. He was moving at about walking pace and had his arms outstretched before him. His brother, however, kept moving from place to place calling out to him. I could not understand what their game consisted of until the brother that was moving all around the place came close to the front door and I heard him shout, "Polo." I almost fell out of my chair when the reality of what was happening dawned on me. The kid in the weird landscaping lawn was blind and he and his brother were playing "Marco Polo." I could not stop laughing. I tried calling a few people so that they could come see what was happening but everyone was on the phone. I kept staring at the events unfolding right outside the door and kept seeing the blind boy trying to find his brother. The brother, meanwhile, kept moving around so that the blind kid kept having to walk on all kind of weird surfaces, like the weird lawn thing he was on. He also kept calling his brother from behind a tree to try to make him walk into one. I secretly kind of hoped the blind kid would have walked into a tree because it would have been hilarious. Unfortunately, and I am guessing this is because this was not their first time playing this particular game, the blind kid was too good to fall for it and walk into a tree.

To quote the comment I posted on facebook the day I saw this happen, "You haven't lived until you see a kid playing Marco Polo with his blind sibling on your front yard." This is proof that god, or whoever is in charge, has a sadistic and dark, yet hilarious, sense of humor. Talk about finding a silver lining, you know? I mean, if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If life gives you blindness, play Marco Polo with your siblings anywhere. It's instant fun. This is proof that happiness is where you find it, as long as you don't mind what people think of you. Besides, laughter is a great thing to share and I can tell you for sure that those two kids made my day that day. Hope you enjoy the story as much as I did. Ciao.

Reason Number 78 Why I Am Going to Hell

As you all know by now, there have been some relatives staying at our house. Less than I originally thought, yet still more than I feel comfortable with and definitely more than I want to have here. You also know that I call them by the affectionate name of "The Unwanted". Well, the damn Unwanted are the cause for reason number 78 why I am going to hell.

As any normal person trying to make a passive aggressive point about not wanting to have any interaction with some people and wishing they had not invaded his house, I have kept to my room most of the time since the Unwanted got here. However, that does not ensure that they will not bother me and get on my nerves as I do have to leave my room on occasion. One such occasion was the other day. I walked out of my room to get some dinner and found the Unwanted sitting at the dinner table. Of course, I have been having all my meals in my room to allow for minimum interaction but while I fixed my dinner the Unwanted Boy started asking me questions. It went as follows:

Unwanted Boy: "Do you wanna play soccer?"

Me: "No."

UB: "Why not?"

Me: "Because I don't like it."

UB: "Why don't you like it?"

Me: "I just don't."

UB: "So, when do you wanna play?"

Me: "I don't wanna play."

UB: "But there is grass outside so it's gonna be nice for us to play."

Me: "I don't wanna play."

(At this point, his sister, Unwanted Girl 2, chimes in)

Unwanted Girl 2: (to UB) "You don't even have a soccer ball."

UB: (to UG2): "Well, we can go buy one." (to me) "When we get a ball, will you play soccer then?"

Me: "I don't like soccer and, regardless of whether you ever get a ball or not, I will never, ever, play soccer with you. Ever!"

So I might have been a bit brusque, but keep in mind that during this grueling grilling, their mom, the Unwanted Aunt, just sat there saying nothing. The next day, I was airing my grievances out to The Co-Worker and she asked me how old Unwanted Boy was. I do not know his age, but my immediate reply was "Too old already, he should have died at birth. Unwanted bastard should have been a stillbirth." Upon uttering those words, I realized that I had stumbled into one more reason why I am going to hell. Not only had I wished that someone had been a stillbirth, but I had wished a relative of mine, and a mere boy at that, had been a stillbirth.

This is great therapy and, probably, the best idea I have ever had for short posts. Hopefully, you guys won't get to hate me. If anything, this should make me more human. Till the next installment of the reasons I am going to hell.

Random Thoughts and Other Things

I woke up this morning not feeling well so I had to call in to work. Yes, that made my weekend a four day weekend, but I did not enjoy not having to work since I was throwing up all morning. I am feeling better now but I felt like I had wasted my day and, in order to do something productive, I decided to write a post. Unfortunately, I really did not have anything to write about so I decided to take a page from Crazy Texas Mommy and do a post with just some random thoughts. I am unsure why she always tries to have her random days be Wednesday, but since I have no discipline and/or follow through on anything, I shall just post them when the mood strikes. So here are my random thoughts of the day:

• It's kind of hard to be random on command. We'll see how this goes.
• I spent several hours yesterday playing super nintendo. It was awesome.
• My thumbs hurt today as a result of yesterday's super nintendo playing.
• I am still planning on playing again later. Quitters never win.
• I am thinking of writing a drunk post one day. I wonder if it will make much sense.
• I just found out a couple of hours ago that I will not get paid for yesterday because I did not work today. It sucks.
• My friend Preggo just found out she is having a girl.
• She hasn't decided on a name for her yet so, until then, I am calling her "The Thing."
• I would ask your assistance finding a name but I doubt she'll want to name her kid Wilhemina.
• I am definitely sure that she would not like her baby daughter to be referred to as "Dirty Willie."
• Or any kind of nickname with the word "Willie" on it.
• Arrested Development is the best show ever!!!
• Days off are just not the same since the Unwanted are here. Even hearing their voices ruins my day.
• I just realized I suck at writing random posts. This may be my first and last.
• Or maybe I will keep at it until I get good.
• I don't have to decide now so I won't.

Well, I guess I did not have that much to say. Sorry for the crappy post. I feel bad even posting it but I already wrote it so I might as well. Hope you all can forgive me. For now, I gotta go because the nintendo is calling my name.

The Unwanted

Well, this post has been a long time coming. For those of you who know me, I have ranted about The Unwanted for a long time now but it is time for me to share this with the rest of the world, or all 9 of you who actually follow this blog. But first, I gotta catch up on some things so give me a minute.

First of all, Happy Fourth of July!!! There, I have used up my patriotic spirit for the year. Come back next year and I may be able to summon one more. I may even be able to add an exclamation mark.

Second, I am giving up on ever getting the clipboard back. It has been too long and I am sure I am not getting it back now.  I should have kept that thief's phone number. Oh well, you live and you learn... and then you stop trusting strangers. A lesson, I feel, I should have learned earlier in life. I guess it is better late than never.

Third, I have come up with a name for my car. Thank you all who commented and provided input as to what the car's name should be, whether you did it online or in person. After much consideration, I am following GunDiva's advice and have decided that my car is a girl. I have also decided to call her Wilhemina. It is an awesome name and everyone that read her comment seemed to agree. However, a friend of mine who reads this blog yet never comments, and thus will be known by the moniker "He Who Reads from the Shadows", gave me the idea of giving it a nickname on top of the name. He provided many suggestions and I finally settle on one. Therefore, my car is a girl who shall henceforth be named Wilhemina and shall be known by the nickname "Dirty Willie". Yes, it's kind of a weird nickname but it is kind of fitting since I hardly ever wash it and because Wilhemina is too long a name to say so it's easier to shorten it to Willie. Also, Dirty Willie just sounds good because it lends itself to many puns and double entendres. You can like it or not, my mind is made up.

Fourth, for those of you who have been wondering about the Sons of Pitches, our softball team, and our progress, I must say we have been doing great, even though we have lost both games we have played so far. It does not matter, we have only lost by one run every single time and we have had a blast playing. Also, sometimes it is better to lose than to go on to extra innings. I am just saying. I am also proud to announce that so far I have only been responsible for three outs. I have been struck out once and, though I have hit the ball twice, I have been tagged at first every time. If nothing else, we have an awesome name. The last team we played kept saying how much they liked the name "Sons of Pitches" during the hand shaking at the end of the game. So, we might have lost the game but our name was cooler so I think that makes us winners. I shall keep you updated on the progress.

Fifth, and last, I hope you guys enjoy the little mini post series of reasons why I am going to hell. As you can tell, my blogs are usually too long so I am glad I have a way now to post something small every now and then. I hope you enjoyed the first installment on the series. I have the next one ready to go but I needed to write today's post before posting the next one or otherwise it would make no sense.

Now, today's topic, The Unwanted...

A couple of weeks ago, on a Tuesday to be exact, I came home from work and took a nap. (Stick with me, the story picks up after a while.) This to mean that I did not talk to my parents until about nine at night when I left my room in search of sustenance. While talking to my mom, she casually states that aunt, one of my dad's sisters, had called to inform us that they, meaning her family composed of her and her husband and their three kids, would be arriving on Friday. Count the days, that is only a three days notice. I groaned and complained and whiningly asked how long they were gonna be here. I was given the good news that their stay was of an undetermined length because they were coming to try and find a job. Remember, this was only a three days notice they gave us. I went into freak-out mode.

I started thinking of all that I had to do and how I did not like kids. The first thing out of my mouth was "Well, I am going to have to start taking my laptop to work."  My dad seemed to be a little upset at this and told me that they were not going to allow the kids in my room when they were here, which I had already assumed was a given. I happened to point out, and my mom backed me up on this, that we had to work during the day and those kids are not the most disciplined kids we know. He seemed to understand a little more and said nothing more on the subject.

I was also informed that I was gonna have to clean my room before they got here. I was flabbergasted at this news. Cleaning my room is usually a full week's undertaking. I am not dirty, per se, but my room does tend to get cluttered. I call it organized chaos. My room may look like a mess, but I know exactly where everything is. Now I had to clean and organize everything in two days, since they were arriving in the third day.  I was just daunted by such an undertaking. Usually I would employ a three day weekend from dawn til dusk to do so and I had to do it in two evenings.

Needless to say I was pissed off. I may or may not have wished they would have a car wreck on their way here so they would not make it. Yes, I know how horrible that sounds and that is one of the reasons I am going to hell that comprise reasons one to seventy-six. They would have had it coming though. It is just plain rude, if you ask me, to give someone such short notice for moving in. They must have known for a while that they were gonna do so. A decision to uproot your family is not made overnight. It's not like we could deny them shelter. They are from El Paso and we have stayed with them plenty of times on our way to Mexico. We have never, however, stayed for more than a few days and we have always given them at least two weeks notice.

As time drew nearer to their arrival, I kept thinking of ways to safeguard my stuff.  I even asked my parents if I could use a padlock. They mentioned that a padlock would not look good on a bedroom door. I guess they did not understand that I meant to use the padlock on the front door. Apparently, you can't lock out your relatives. I don't see why not. Stupid societal rules.

They arrived on Friday evening. Thankfully, I had practice with the Sons of Pitches and was not there when they arrived. When I got home from practice, I said hi, took a shower and left for my best friend's house where I spend the weekend. I came back on Sunday for the first Sons of Pitches games, against a team by the name of "The Shockers", which cracked everyone in our team up. We still think they have no idea what their name means. For those of you reading this that are also in the dark, urbandictionary.com can clear things up for you. After the game, some of the players went to the pool and, despite it being Father's Day and my family having a cook out, I went with them because I did not want to deal with The Unwanted. This is also included in reasons 1-76 of why I am going to hell.

I had been told how I would have to be social and nice. So far, nice for me has been not yelling at the unwanted kids for daring to talk to me. I have stayed in my room for the most part since they have been here. Luckily, my aunt's husband went back to El Paso a few days after arriving. I was not aware of this for a while but it made my day when I found out. Not that I don't like him. Let's just say that if there was a world catastrophe, he would not be very high on my list of people I would make sure survived. I think he would make the list, I just am not certain of it.

As for now, The Unwanted consists of four people:

The Unwanted Aunt is my dad's sister. I have never really liked her much. I remember a Christmas, a long time ago, when she got everyone of my cousins and my siblings really cool toys as gifts and yet I got a notepad and some pencils (not colored pencils, just pencils). I was actually really happy to get a gift so I did not mind. It was not until later that someone, maybe Medea, told me that the reason I got such a crappy gift was because my aunt had forgotten about me completely so when she saw me at the Christmas party she wrapped the first thing she could find. I was not even aware that my gift was crappy but leave it to Medea to burst a young boy's bubble.  I guess I should be upset that Medea told me that, but I was never really close to my aunt so I just have never felt really close to her or cared much for her.

The Unwanted Boy is the Unwanted Aunt's oldest child. I think he is about thirteen but I am not sure because I could ask but I could not care less. He is annoying in that way in which kids who never know when to shut the hell up are. He is the constant questioner with the "but why?" questions. He is a thorn on my side and one of the main reasons why I stay in my room. So far, he has asked to use my iTunes account and annoyed me beyond belief when I said no because he did not understand why I would not. A simple, because I don't want to did not suffice.

The Unwanted Girl 1 is the middle child of the Unwanted Aunt's family.  She is kind of quiet and possibly the one I can deal with the most. Not that I want to deal with but if they were all to die and I was asked, forced, to choose one to live, it would probably be her. I have no clue what her age is either but she is younger than 13. The one thing I have noticed about her is that she giggles a lot and I can't stand her giggling. It is still better than the relentless questioning of Unwanted Boy.

The Unwanted Girl 2 is the youngest of the Unwanted Clan. She is spoiled beyond belief. She is about 8, though I may be off on that. So far, I have heard her whine instead of talking when she wants something and it took everything in me to not reach out and slap her and see if she stopped. What's interesting is that I am not usually a violent person. I also heard her cry once and I couldn't stand that either so I guess I am glad I did not slap her because she would have gone from one annoying sound to another. Oh and because it would be wrong to slap her, regardless of how much she deserved it. I think.

So these are the people I have been having to deal with. Four new and annoying people all crammed into the one extra bedroom we have. They have been hogging everything. They ate all my oreos! (In case you are wondering because of that last statement, I am 26 years old at the time I am writing this.) They have been using my internet because I was asked, forced, by my dad to give them the key for the wireless modem. I have not stopped being spiteful though. Every morning before going to work, I start downloading videos on my laptop, which I decided to leave here to see if they dare face the consequences of touching my stuff, so that it will slow down their internet access. Yes, I know I am evil and a master of passive-aggressiveness thanks to Medea, but as He Who Reads from the Shadows said to me when I was telling him of my woes, "Family are like fish, after three days they start to stink." I may have misquoted but you get the gist of it.

So far, I have survived but keep me in your thoughts because if they push me the wrong way I am not responsible for my actions. That is my defense and, though it may not hold in court, I am sticking to it for now. As usual, I will keep you updated on any new happenings. Write to you guys later!

Reason Number 77 Why I Am Going to Hell

I realize I have not written a blog in a while. I have stuff to write, just not enough time to write it. I have found a simple solution. I will have some mini blog entries. These will be list of reasons why I am going to hell. Now, I have never kept track of all the reasons I have accumulated during my life, that is why I am starting with number 77. Especially since I am sure there have been more than 76 reasons in the past. Anyway, moving on to reason number 77.

I was sitting at my desk working on some forms that had been submitted. These forms have to be signed by every adult in the household. One of the forms had a note from a lady saying that her son was unable to sign the forms because he had color cancer. I understand the gravity of the situation, but my mind just kept wondering how exactly would colon cancer deter someone from being able to sign a form. After that, I was stuck with the mental image of a guy squatting over some paper with a pen stuck you-know-where trying to sign with his colon. I bust out laughing and thought the image was quite hilarious. Yes, I was sitting at my desk laughing at a poor guy with colon cancer and his struggling mother. I thus realized that was one more reason why I was going to hell and knew I would have to post it.

Well, till next time. I hope the next post will be a long post. If not, you will just learn about one more reason why I am going to hell.

So, If You Had a White Dodge Avenger, What Would You Name Him?

First of all, yes, I referred to a car as a "him." Why? I don't know. I know most people refer to their cars as feminine, but that has always rang false to me. My cars are boys. Now, if it were a van or a truck, it would be feminine. That's a given. I think this stems from the fact that in Spanish the word "carro" is masculine and the word "van" and "troca" are feminine. All this, however, is neither here nor there. Regardless, I am going to go into excruciating detail because that is what I do best.

My first vehicle was an '89 GMC VanDura. I do not have a picture of it, but it was a huge van that was all metal. I mention that because it was a great car to learn to drive in. People will get out of your way if you are driving a big chunk of metal and seem to have no clue as to what you are doing. If they don't, they soon realize that a collision with said vehicle will damage their car while leaving mine mostly intact. In all the years I drove that van, only one car had to learn that lesson the hard way (it ended up with no back bumper). The van also emerged victorious from an encounter with a stop sign. In fact, the only object that managed to damage my van was a wall I backed into. I guess walls are sturdier than expected. I loved this van. I had it while I was still a church going kid and we used to drive it everywhere. It was not unusual for me to have anywhere from eight to fifteen teens packed in that van, which was really fun considering it did not have a/c. Lucky for me, I was always driving and the driver and passenger windows did roll down. I have many fun memories of that van. Among them, the very first parking lot talks of my life. Many of the great conversations in my life have happened in parking lots. We would sit in that van and discuss everything, from our biggest problems to the latest gossip. This led to us having a motto, "Lo que pasa en la Scooby, se queda en la Scooby." This meant, "What happens in the Scooby, stays in the Scooby." As you can probably infer, the name of the van was "The Scooby Van." It wasn't green, but it was big and it worked for us. Thus, the tradition of naming my cars was born.

My second car was green, but it wasn't a van. It was a Ford Focus. Do not expect me to explain why, but I loved that car as well. I have an eclectic taste for cars but from the moment the Focus first came out, it was on my list of favorite cars. And no, I did not like the hatchback but the four-door sedan. I know the car was not unique and that was part of its appeal. I never put a bumper sticker on it or anything that would make it stand out from any other green Focus. I loved that. The reason why I loved that, and this is going to sound shady, is that if I ever committed a crime and a witness was trying to describe the getaway car, they would have nothing more than "green focus." I am not planning on committing any crimes, but anonymity seemed really important for some reason. I don't remember how the naming of this car came about, but I do know that his name is Frank. I think at one point Frank had a last name, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was. Last year, and I know it was mostly because of how badly I took care of it for the five years I had it, Frank started malfunctioning so I had to get a new car. Thankfully, my dad needed a car to use so he could drive to and from work so I still get to see, and even drive, Frank fairly often.

This brings me to the white Dodge Avenger I have now. I have had it for about a year. It usually runs well and is pretty comfortable. The acquisition of this car was quite different from the other two. The Scooby Van was a hand me down from my parents. Frank, I went out and looked till I found him. It was funny because the only thing I knew when I went car shopping is that I wanted a green Focus. People thought I was weird. I called myself eccentric. The Avenger, however, has a whole different story.

I had told my parents I was thinking of getting a new car. This was of course last May. I was at my old job as a receptionist at the retirement village and I had to work for four hours on Saturdays. Well, one Saturday, I get a call from my parents asking me to step outside for a minute. When I did, I saw them drive up in this white car. They told me that they had gone car shopping in the morning and that they liked this car for me. I was then instructed to stop by the car dealership after work so I could sign the paperwork. When I got off work, I met them at the dealership. We talked for a few minutes in which I told them that I really wanted to just get another Focus. They said that they did not like the Focus anymore and that I needed something else. After that, I walked in and signed the papers. The car is under my name, purchased with my credit, I will be making the monthly payments, I am responsible for the insurance, in fact it's one hundred percent my car, except for the fact that I did not get to pick it.

I suffer from a big delusion. I think, and believe, inanimate objects have feelings. Which is part of the reason why I feel bad writing the next sentence. I am not sure I like my new car. It is not my style. Also, my parents took it to Mexico within a month of me buying it and tinted the windows dark. I guess that is OK, but it wasn't my choice as I tend to think of cars with tinted windows as drug dealer cars. Granted, that may be because I grew up in Juarez and drug dealers tended to tint their windows really dark. All I am saying is that it is not really my style. I still feel a disconnect between me and the new car. I think it comes from the fact that he really was not my number one option and that I did not have much choice in choosing him. Don't get me wrong, he has been a good car. That is until it broke down about a month ago.

I woke up on a Wednesday morning, got ready for work and stepped outside to go to work. I got into my car and turned the ignition on and, since I was a bit early, I even let it warm up a bit before I left. That's when things went wrong. When I went to shift into gear, I could not shift out of Park. I tried for a few minutes and, after failing repeatedly, I decided to take my dad's truck to work. Upon arriving at work, I consulted with several friends and got several tips on trying to get it to work. None of them worked when I tried them at lunch so I had to have it towed to the dealership to get it worked on. By Thursday, the car was working again.

It really wasn't anything more than a major inconvenience but it did get me thinking. Was I being unfair to him because I did not like him as much? Did he realize that he was the red-headed step child of my cars and thus was acting out? Had I hurt his feelings since I had not made an effort to bond with him? Was I taking him for granted and was he trying to teach me a lesson? While talking to The Co-Worker, her who convinced me to start writing a blog, I realized I had not even named this car yet. For one, she thought that cars having guy names was hilarious and was cracking up about Frank's name. But the fact that the Avenger did not have a name bothered me and we tried to come up with a few. We thought of Moby-Dick and such but nothing really seemed satisfactory which brings me to the title of this post, "If you had a white Dodge Avenger, what would you name him?"

I know I probably do not have a lot of readers left since I have been bad about writing often, but for those few of you that still read it, any and all suggestions will be appreciated. I don't have a picture of my car today but I will take one tomorrow and add it to this post to help give you an idea. Please help me bond to the car that I will have for the next four years at the very least. After all, he is a good car and it is not his fault that my parents chose him instead of me. He has performed admirably and he deserves a good name, won't you help him?


Picture courtesy of my friend Preggo (not her real name). Thanks for taking the picture Preggo!

I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friend.

And a bad blogger to boot. Honestly, I have had some things to write about for a while. I just haven't made myself get on here and get with it lately. Let me update you on a few things first. No, I have not gotten my clipboard back. Yes, I wussed out and turned in her application so I don't have the thief's number anymore. I think this is a lost cause so I may have to let it go. You gotta know when to cut your losses. Next, unfortunately my jersey number for The Sons of Pitches will not be Pi, but 42. Or 44. At this point, who cares, right? Just kidding. I still love the team and am looking forward to our fourth practice. I have realized though that the sport is a lot more dangerous than I was initially told. For example, on our second practice, a ball hit me on my left thigh. I am not saying I overreacted, but I wore an athletic cup for the third practice. But when one of our teammates got hit on the chin with the ball on our third practice, I realize that a cup is not enough. I need a freakin' suit of armor to play this sport. Unfortunately, those are not easily accessible or conductive to a good range of movement. Plus, I don't think it would meet the uniform requirements. All caught up? Let's move on.

Allow me to whine for a moment. I had a horrible week. It didn't start out too bad. I was off Monday since it was Memorial Day (insert something good about soldiers here to make you feel better and make me look good). But Tuesday, oh god Tuesday, was a whole different story. Now I don't want to be all gross, but we all know I am going to so brace yourself. Let's just say that, halfway through my morning shift at work, I kept getting the urge to pee. Let's also say that, right before lunch, I realized I was peeing blood. I don't wanna say this scared the living daylights out of me, but I started writing a will before realizing I had nothing to bequeath to anyone but debts. So during lunch I went home and looked at the ever handy WebMD site. It said that it was likely a urinary tract infection. Under home remedies, it said to drink lots of fluids and specifically cranberry juice. I called work and informed them that I would be unable to return to work and immediately headed to the grocery store to buy cranberry juice. I got one of those one liter bottles of it and downed it hoping it would help. Let me just say this, cranberry juice should never be drunk without some form of liquor accompanying it. Then I just sat at the toilet for the next few hours as the urge to pee would not abate and it was pointless to go anywhere. I cannot say if the juice did much but by the end of the day I had stopped peeing blood, even though the discomfort was still there, and I thought the worst was over.

I was wrong. On Wednesday I got up and figured I would go to work. I realized, when I was driving to work, that I wasn't all there. My reaction time was slower than usual and I was moving slow. Well, slower. Touche. I must say that I hate doctors. The last time I went to one, I was forced to go by my parents. This time, I willingly made an appointment and left work shortly after I had arrived.

Later that morning when I got to the doctor's office, he was not too happy with the fact that I had not had a physical in over ten years and that I had not had a tetanus shot in just about as long. He asked what my symptoms were and I described them to him, adding that now I actually had body aches and was sore all over. He proceeded to examine me, a bit too roughly if you ask me. I mean, when he was checking for hernias and asked me to cough, I could swear he applied so much pressure a tear may have slid down my cheek. Then again, my body was just probably a bit more tender because of being sick but I still held a grudge. To make matters worse, he looked perplexed when he announced that I had a urinary tract infection. He said that men rarely ever got them. I did not say much, but what the hell? Was he questioning my manhood? I mean, he knew I was a guy. He almost made me cry while handling my equipment. Can you see why I hate doctors? Also, he said guys "rarely" got them. He did not say "never." Let's just say I was happy to get my prescription for antibiotics and get going.

Does the story get better? For most people it would after that. For me, it did not. I dropped the prescription at the pharmacy and they told me it was going to be about an hour and a half. I asked, very nice and politely, if they would please give me a call when they got the prescription ready. The nice lady said she would, so, when I got home I took a nap trusting I would receive a call to wake me up and pick my meds up. Four hours later, Medea got home from work. First thing she asked was why did I not go to work. Simple enough, I did not feel well. Plus, I did go to work, I just did not stay. I told her I had to go get my meds and she said that she would offer to go get them for me but she had to cook dinner. I figured that was fair so I went and got my own meds. They are supposed to be taken with food so I also bought a whole bunch of cans of chicken noodle soup and I picked up some Azo the doctor had recommended. For those of you who don't know what Azo is, and I speak mainly to any guy readers I might have (as if!), Azo is a urinary analgesic that makes peeing less painful when you have a UTI. It also makes your pee a bright orange which is really weird. Back to the story, I get home and start preparing a can of soup for myself so I can take the meds. I am moving really slow as my whole body aches and I am really tired. Medea, upon noticing my state, commented that the reason I felt so miserable was because I was just too lazy and had slept the day away. Oh My Freaking god!!! I could have slapped her if it hadn't taken so much energy. I was furious though. There I was taking care of myself, making my own soup, picking up my own meds, feeling like I am dying, and she has the decency to say that. She did not stop there. She said that if I wanted to feel better, I should clean around the house. When I did not respond to that she then suggested I just go outside and just walk or run for a while so I could shake the lethargy off. She wanted me to go running! I could not believe it. I was speechless, which was a good thing because who knows what I would have said. I did get her back a few minutes later though because she said that she had a headache. I quickly suggested that she go for a run to get rid of her headache. Funny, right? She didn't think so. So now she was mad because I was upset because of what she said. I have no idea how she does it, but she always turns things around and gets mad at me for being offended because she insulted me.

Anyway, I would love to say that I felt better right away but I actually felt worse before I felt better. That night I had a fever of 101 degrees. Not too high a fever. What sucked though is that I had not had a fever in over twenty years and I can no longer say that. But it does paint a picture of how sick I was. In the past, regardless of how sick I got, I had never gotten a fever. I would get close, but no fever. That is when I started worrying. That night was the toughest one but once the fever broke, the worst was over. I still took Thursday off to fully rest and allow the meds to get me back to feeling better and take away all the pains and aches. The headache was the last to leave on Thursday night.

I don't want to say I have become paranoid, especially since I have been one to always check my urine to make sure I am drinking enough water, but let's just say I pay extra attention now. Unfortunately, I scared the hell out of myself Friday at work when I went to pee and realized my urine was a bright red. I almost had a mini-panic attack, which is not good when you are using a urinal and you have to keep aiming, until I realized that I was still taking the freaking Azo and just had not had enough water because I had been busy at work. That is one of the most relieving realizations I have had while relieving myself.

So that is my week in a nut shell. Why then is my post called "I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friend?" Give me a minute. I am getting to it. I just don't know the meaning of the word "brevity." Anyway, when I posted on my facebook that I wasn't feeling well, I was flooded with people asking if they could do anything for me or bring me some soup. I even had someone offer something that made me blush. Well, it didn't make me blush so much as it made me wonder what the hell he was thinking. But I digress. My best friend checked up on me daily and kept asking if I needed anything and could not be any sweeter. She kept saying that if it weren't for my parents she would come see me and see what I needed. I called her today after work to let her know I was all better and I find out that she has strep throat. I had nothing to say other than, "well, call me when you get better." See how horrible that is? But I could not bring myself to offer anything. I mean, I am still on antibiotics and I am pretty sure my immune system is still down and I already spent a whole week sick. I can't risk getting strep. Yes, I am selfish. One thing I can guarantee though, I will not tell her to go running so that she will feel better. Hey, I guess I am not that bad after all, right?

Happy Birthday, Noe.

This is gonna be a serious one. Those with a weak disposition may want to skip it and wait for the next installment.

I was gonna write a real blog today but I figured I was going to set this day aside in memory of my late younger brother Noe. Today would have been his 22nd birthday. He passed away on Christmas of 1999 at the early age of eleven.

I am not gonna say we always got along. We were brothers so we fought our fair share. He even peed on me when I was a kid once because I made him mad. To be fair, he did warn me but I didn't think he would do it. I was wrong.

He was dealt a difficult hand when he was eight and, after three arduous years of battling leukemia, he passed on.

I miss him though. It is at times like these that I wish I believed in Heaven or an afterlife. I do hope he is still out there, somewhere, in some shape or form.

Sometimes, I feel like he got cheated because he did not get to experience more of life. I think about what life would have been if our roles were reversed. I still don't know if living is really the prize or if being released from this dark world that really is the goal. I will never know. I am just grateful that I had him in my life for as long as I did. I think in the end, that is all that matters.

My Very First Sports Injury*

*A bit of a misnomer, but I shall elaborate later on in the post.

I am so sorry. Can you guys ever find it in your heart to forgive me? I know it has been 17 days since my last post. (Going on 18 but who's counting?) I would love to say that I have a great reason for it. I would love to be able to get on this site and tell you guys that my life has done a complete 180 and that I have found a wonderful guy and that my life is so full of wonderful things that I hadn't had time to log on and write. Alas, I cannot say any of those things with a clear conscience. I have to come clean and say that the only reason I have not posted is simply because I am lazy. I know I am a horrible person. Just consider, before you start throwing stones, who among you has never procrastinated and left something for later regardless of how important it was for you. Therefore, let that entity, since all humans are guilty of procrastination, who has never been lazy before throw the first stone. Now, with a clear conscience, I shall continue.

Allow me, if you will, to elaborate on the asterisk next to the title of this post. Will this story center around the very first injury I have suffered that is related to sports? No. There are many painful memories in my sports trajectory. Yet, this particular injury that I speak of happened during a voluntary excursion into the terrifying world of sports and differs from the others because I was not involuntarily placed in hazardous situations.

To fully understand the enmity between me and sports, let us take a stroll down memory lane, where sports memories are safely hidden in a back room with a "Caution: Enter at Your Own Risk" sign at the door warning of the emotional pain that lies within. Shall we?

My first memory is from before I can even remember. Thus, it may not qualify as a memory, though I clearly remember my mother telling me the story more than once. Now, I was there, I just don't remember. As the story goes, when I was but a wee lad of about four years of age, my dad was a big baseball fan. He and his friends had a non-professional league team that would play every Sunday. At some point, and I am not sure why, my dad stopped playing in the team, yet continued to attend the games every Sunday. My dad loved taking me to the games since at that time I was his only son and he wanted to do all that father-son bonding kind of thing. To this day I have no idea what kind of field they played in. I don't know if it had bleachers for the spectators to sit at or if it was just an open field and people would just watch from the sides. Whichever it was, there was obviously no barrier to stop a ball from making contact with a four-year-old's head. Yes, that head was my head. To hear my mom tell the story, she was furious. Mexican mothers tend to be a bit overprotective. Just a tad. Not a whole lot. Yet she decreed that I was not to attend any more of those games. My dad, as a red-blooded Mexican male (doesn't that sound weird?), decided to take me to the game the next week without my mom's consent. Now, I am not saying my dad's decision was wrong but, if lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, baseballs do. I can only imagine what my dad had to go through after that. I am pretty sure that he was concerned about my well being, but even more so about what would happen when Medea caught wind of what had happened. Needless to say, I never attended any of those games again. It's a shame though because I cannot remember a single one of those games and to this day I wonder if that was because I was too young or because I was hit on the head with a baseball two weeks in a row.

Thus I was ominously initiated into the world of sports and though I never again had a brush with baseball, my attempts at any other sport did not fare much better. I should have seen the sign early on and stopped all athletic endeavours at an early age. I shall blame brain trauma from the two baseball hits to the head as being responsible for me not learning this lesson a long time ago.

Soccer was the next sport that I tried. After all, I was Mexican and they all seem to be obsessed about it. I didn't dislike it, but I was not good at it either. When you are playing against your brother, who happens to be 4 years younger than you, and he is beating you, it is a clear hint that the sport is not for you. Fortunately, only my ego was hurt and I suffered no physical damage from it.

I must admit that growing up I did kind of play "baseball." I say "kind of" and put "baseball" in quotations because we played in the street with tennis balls and pieces of two-by-fours for bats. Once my dad brought a tennis racket that someone gave him and from then on that became my favorite "bat." We also only had two bases and we had a saying "corralito es out" which meant that if the ball went inside someone's property, it counted as an out. I was never injured from these games, unless you count splinters from our wooden "bats." Obviously these were just childhood games and not a sport and I don't usually count them with my sport stories. I only bring it up because I said earlier that "I never again had a brush with baseball" which, if you read this paragraph carefully, is technically true as what I played as a child cannot be considered baseball.

I was always a smart kid in school. My grades were usually at the top of the class when I was in elementary school. That is, of course, if you don't consider physical education. The one class every other kid aced and looked forward to was the one class that kept me from getting a scholarship for a private middle school in Mexico. I didn't just dislike the class, I hated it. I would dread it and I even went as far as to ask for extra homework in lieu of having to go out and participate in whatever sport or activity they had us doing that week. This brings us to my fourth grade P.E. class. The teacher told me that I had to go out and play that day or I would have to receive a failing grade for that month. The torturous activity of the week was basketball. I resigned myself to my fate, took a deep breath and walked into the court. I tried staying out of the ball's way as much as possible but, as luck would have it, someone eventually threw the ball at me. All I can say at this point is that I tried. It wasn't my fault, however, that my lack of hand-eye coordination led to my hand completely missing the ball while trying to dribble and have my right-hand thumb receive the full impact of the bouncing ball and my hand's downward momentum. I lasted a full five minutes in that game before I had to go sit down with a swollen thumb. We didn't really have a school nurse and it did not look broken so I never did go see a doctor for that. All I know is that for a week I could not use that thumb for it was swollen to twice its normal size and it hurt every time there was any amount of pressure on it. It was thus that I learned my lesson against trying to play basketball.

Unfortunately, it was not the only misfortune I suffered at the mercy of a basketball. Many years later, while a freshman in high school, a basketball smashed my glasses. What really sucked about having my glasses smashed by a basketball was that I was wearing them at the moment it happened. Now, I haven't lied. The times I played basketball after the thumb incident can be counted with the fingers on one hand. However, the glasses incident I will take full responsibility for. By then I knew better than to join the game as I knew basketballs were out to get me. In order to avoid participating in P.E. class I had become accustomed to bringing a book with me to read during that interminable class period. I don't remember what book I was reading that specific day, or if I ever got to finish reading it since I could not read without glasses. What I do remember is where I sat down to enjoy my book. Most people would have the common sense to not sit directly underneath and behind the basket. I am not most people. Someone attempted a basket. They missed the basked and hit nothing but air. He yelled something and I looked up just in time to have the ball hit me in the face and break my glasses. I guess the ball did hit something more than just air, but I really doubt they award points for hitting someone in the face. After all, it's not boxing. I was sent to the nurse's office. Fortunately, the glasses received most of the impact. They were these humongous glasses with very thick lenses and a horrendous frame that even Urkel would have refused to wear. I guess the ball did me a favor by breaking them as I got some better ones after that, but for some reason I still do not look back fondly and am not filled with warm feelings when I think about what happened.

Shortly after the glasses incident I decided that I should try a sport that was less intense. I talked to my coach in school and started learning how to play golf. Now, it is really hard to get injured while practicing golf. The proof lies in the fact that golf was another one of the sports in which I did not suffer a physical injury. Then again, I only practiced it a grand total of five times. As we were walking back to the school building at the end of my fifth practice, during which I would have an individual session with the coach as he showed me how to hit the ball, the coach put his hands on my shoulder and said the following words: "You should probably just quit trying to learn the game. You are obviously never going to be able to get it." As I said, I walked away from golf without a physical injury. However, it did hurt. I had confirmation at last that me and sports were not a good match.

All this brings me to the real reason I started this post. A week ago I injured myself playing sports once again.

As you all know, I have been trying to be more active and be more adventurous. Therefore, when some friends asked me to join a softball team, despite my better judgment, I said yes. I proudly became one of the members of the "Sons of Pitches." Last Sunday was our first practice. I didn't really know what that entailed. When I left my house that day to go to practice, I made sure my cell phone had enough battery because for some reason I imagined myself just sitting at a bench enjoying the breeze and texting a whole bunch of friends. Although I had been advised that I would need a glove to play in the team, I did not realize that I would also need one for the practice. To reiterate, the only thing I grabbed when I walked out of my house was my cell phone. Imagine my surprise when I get there and people are expecting me to play catch. They wanted me to play catch! I don't throw. I had not thrown a ball in ages. Furthermore, I did not have a glove. This was turning out to not be the texting bonanza I had envisioned. They kept telling me how to throw and expecting me to do it. Not only that, but they expected me to do it in front of other people. Someone lent me a glove and I finally resigned myself to the idea that I had to do it. I just swallowed hard, buried my embarrassment at having people watch me throw deep inside of me and just did it.

I had just gotten over the shock of having to play catch when they decided to try hitting what they called "fly balls." Apparently, someone was gonna start hitting balls and people had to stand out in the field and catch them. I managed to avoid doing that for the first few minutes but then I was sent in and was, once again, expected to do something that is not entirely within my comfort zone. First of all, I can't catch. Second of all, I have never in my life used a glove and thus cannot catch with a glove. Third of all, when I see a ball flying towards me, instinct and life have taught me to run away from it and to try and avoid any contact. How am I then supposed to meet this ball that is rushing towards me with all its pain inflicting power head on? Throwing, I was told, seemed to come naturally for me. At least that is what my very supportive friends kept telling me. No such compliments were received regarding my catching. I was only too glad to be done with that part of the practice and move on to the next.

For the last part of practice, we actually manned the positions on the field and pretended we were in a game. Every few minutes or so we would rotate so that everyone could play every position. For most of the positions nothing happened so I did not mind them. The positions I did not like though were Short Stop, and First. While in Short Stop, I had a ball head directly towards me at which point I moved out of the way and let outfield know the ball was coming by pointing at it and saying "there it goes." While at First, people kept throwing the ball at me which was usually followed by me not being able to catch the ball and then having to run (walk?) after it. Then, my turn at bat came up. Oh my god!!!!!! Apparently there is a certain way that you have to stand and it looks weird and people are watching. It was so embarrassing. You have by now noticed I have confidence issues. My confidence, however, was strengthened a little when I managed to hit the ball almost every time I took a swing. Although the ball did not fly high, it would actually make it to the out field so that felt kind of good.

It was that one time that I swung the bat and did not hit it though that reminded me I should not play sports. I felt something in my left arm stretch as I swung and hit nothing but air. It was not till later though that I realized I could not raise my left arm without it hurting. Yes, I had injured myself and this time it was at a sport that I willingly chose to participate in. For some reason, this injury did not carry the bitterness and anger of the previous ones. I did not resent having injured myself. In fact, I was kind of proud of it. I knew then that I would have to write about it and that the title would be "My Very First Sports Injury." Again, not because I had not been injured before, but because it was the first injury that did not deter me from pursuing a sport as I do not plan on quiting the team. First of all, because the "Sons of Pitches" is an awesome name. Second, because the team is composed of some wonderful people that don't mind that I can't play the game at all. Third, because the number on my shirt may get to be Pi, 3.1416, as long as the rules allow it. Fourth, because getting injured is not such a bad thing when you choose to play the game on your own instead of being forced to do so.

I am not quitting the team so you all can look forward to hearing more of my sports misadventures as I know there will be many more. Yet, for some reason, I don't dread them anymore. It is funny that I was first injured in a game of baseball and my last injury was in a softball practice. Although they are not the same game, they are pretty closely related and, in a way, I feel like I have come full circle and finally reached some closure.

First Amendment

To those that are wondering from my last post, I still have not received my clipboard back. To make matters worse, I have already lost two pens since Friday. I guess I am too nice for my own good. People, man! They just bring you down, turn you into a monster and then call you one. Still, I am holding out hope that I will see my clipboard back. Oh, where is my clipboard?

Moving on, if you have read my last blog, in addition to being up to date on the clipboard situation, you also know I spent last weekend helping a friend move. Now, I live my life by a set of rules. Some are inane ones like I have to eat the fortune cookie before I read the fortune. Don't look at me like I am weird. I am not the only one who does that... I think. Anyway, some rules I have set just to protect myself and my right to be lazy. One such rule is "I will never help anyone move, regardless of whether they are my friends or not." I have worked hard to uphold this rule. I have gone as far as to introduce myself by saying, "Hi, my name is Carlos and I will never ever help you move regardless of whether or not we become friends." Yes, this sounds funny and insincere. It usually works as a really good icebreaker too. Unfortunately, people rarely believe me and later on the road, once we are friends and they are moving, they ask if I am willing to help them move. To this I reply by simply saying, "Do you remember what I said when I first met you?" They often don't and I am only too glad to remind them. They always say that they thought I was kidding. And I always tell them that I wasn't and that regardless of how good friends we are, I hate moving and will not help them.

Heartless? Callous? Mean? Maybe. But the important thing to remember is that this makes me happy. I don't have to lift heavy boxes and move furniture or make a million trips up and down stairs hauling someone else's stuff and being paid with nothing but some fast food and a soda. I am sorry but gratitude is not enough payment for all that hard work. I like having people feel like they owe me, but they will never be able to pay me back if I help them move. I think by now I have made it clear that I hate, loathe, despise and abhor moving.

This brings me to the first amendment in my book of rules. It goes like this: "I will never help you move. This applies to all my friends and acquaintances." There is however one exception. "If your name is followed by the title of "friend" and this title has the modifier "best" in front of it, then, and only then, will I help you move. Only one person shall have the modifier "best" in front of the "friend" title at any point in time. Offer not valid with any other promotions. I reserve the right to change the terms of this exception at any point in time with or without further notice."

This is actually the first time I put this exception in writing. I only noticed it myself this past weekend. Looking back, this exception has applied since the establishing of the rule. I helped my previous best friend move twice. Once, it was even to a city 200 miles away. Now, I have helped my new best friend move. Yes, I carried boxes and moved furniture and even used tools. What did I get out of it? Well, we ate pizza and had a few drinks. But as with a lot of things in life, it is not what you are doing but who you are doing it with that matters. I guess I am a better friend than I care to admit. There is really not much I would not do for my friends. But let's keep that our little secret.

Oh, and by the way, to all of my readers, old and new, known and unknown, regardless of whether or not we ever become friends, I will never, EVER help you move.